I spent yesterday licking my wounds and recovering from what happened, yes, but I also spent time doing my writing assignment for the new adult education class I’m taking: Stand-up comedy with Bob Gatreau. I wrote it about “family therapy” with my parents. What a joke that was. I’d post the text except the routine is full of gestures that can’t be seen when you read it.
I laughed at myself, and that helped some. I noticed that in the scene, I was completely absent. My parents did all the talking and the therapist mediated. I didn’t talk at all or make any gestures or even appear present. I am talked about as though I am not in the room. The therapist has to remind my parents to address me and not each other.
In real life family therapy, I did talk and I was noticed, but my parents steamrollered over me. They sometimes took up the entire session screaming about my smoking and drinking coffee. The therapist had a hard time explaining to my parents that communication and listening were more important than my personal habits.
So yesterday, I made a joke of them. I made a joke of myself. I made myself laugh at them and myself and a past situation that shouldn’t have happened. It helped me cope with the present situation that shouldn’t have happened, and laugh at it–but only for a little while.